The house I left is buttoned up tight tonight, its orphaned olive trees gone liquid in the wind. I’m a trespasser for even remembering.
Tag Archives: Jordan
The American House
“It smells like an old crypt,” Noor said as the central heating system sluggishly started up for the first time that autumn. Stray leaves whispered in the ducts. “Smelled a crypt before?” Khaldoun asked his new wife.
Natalia A. 